


Machine Wash, Tumble Dry

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-01
Updated: 2003-10-01
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: For Mulder, cleanliness is not next to godliness.  It's an invitation for disaster.





	Machine Wash, Tumble Dry

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Machine Wash, Tumble Dry

## Machine Wash, Tumble Dry

### by Satchie
    
    
    TITLE:           Machine Wash, Tumble Dry
    AUTHOR:          Satchie
    E-MAIL ADDRESS:  
    CATEGORY:        MT/Humor
    RATING:          PG-13 (for language)
    SUMMARY:         For Mulder, cleanliness is not next to godliness.  It's an invitation for disaster.
    SPOILERS:        None worth mentioning
    FEEDBACK:        Feed the need
    DISCLAIMER:      Yes, they all belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox.  Damn.
    THANKS TO:       Spock for inspiring me to spoof the bane of my existence.
    

DEDICATED TO: My Mulder's Refuge chat room buds for the on-line therapy. By the way, I _still_ hate laundry. 

* * *

Mulder sighed in exasperation at the overstuffed laundry hamper. Clothes cascaded over the sides of the wicker basket and spilled onto the floor into shapeless blobs. Scarcely a square inch of bathroom tile was visible beneath the minor landfill. He had been seriously remiss in his housekeeping chores for over two weeks, and the aroma was extremely pungent. Thank goodness Scully wasn't here to witness this brutal assault on the environment. She would contact USAMRIID and have him and his apartment quarantined indefinitely. 

Of course the circumstances were entirely beyond his control. He had intended to atone for his woeful neglect last weekend after unexpectedly being loaned out to the Detroit field office. Unfortunately, a last-minute case intervened before he could spend quality time in the laundry room. Mulder had haphazardly thrown his garment bag on the bed and frantically scrambled to locate a sufficient supply of clean clothing while cursing his predicament. After packing the modest supply of t-shirts and boxers, he had been dismayed to discover his sock drawer was completely empty. Alas, with his flight due to depart in less than two hours, Mulder's choices were limited. In an act of sheer desperation, he rummaged through the clothes hamper and retrieved half a dozen previously worn socks. Blessing them with a generous spray of deodorant, he bemoaned his tragic dilemma. Armani suits and dirty footwear. His mother would be mortified. 

Now safely home following another harrowing encounter with a genetic mutant, a fate worse than any X-File awaited Fox Mulder: Laundry. Gulping the slightly expired orange juice directly from the carton, he opened his closet and assessed the damage. Crap. The situation was far worse than he imagined. If he didn't drop his suits off at the cleaners this morning all he would have to wear on Monday was a baseball cap and a smile. J. Edgar would never approve unless, perhaps, Mulder wore matching pumps. 

His search for unsoiled weekend wear was marginally successful. Donning a pair of mismatched sweats, he was profoundly thankful he wouldn't have to dig through the pile of dirty clothes and perform the infamous "sniff test." Mulder took a deep breath and summoned the energy and enthusiasm necessary to accomplish his dreaded tasks. Resigned to the inevitable, he crammed his dress shirts, ties and suits in a large plastic bag. For a fleeting moment, he considered paying someone an exorbitant fee to decontaminate the rest of his wardrobe, but assumed it would be a federal crime to knowingly expose a civilian to excessive levels of bio-hazardous materials. Torching his formidable foe with gasoline and setting it ablaze was a tempting option, but he strongly suspected his long-suffering landlord and fellow tenants would not appreciate his creative solution. Thus far they had tolerated the occasional nocturnal gunfire, elevator brawl, leaky waterbed and dead body in the hallway, but surely there was a limit to their endurance. 

With his jaw set in grim determination, Mulder snatched the battered laundry basket from the closet and reluctantly headed toward the bathroom. An explosive pain in his right foot belatedly alerted him to the presence of a recently relocated box of old files. Uttering an impressive array of profanities, he dropped to the floor while he examined the injured digits. How could a small anatomical structure hurt so badly? And wasn't there a statute of limitations as to how many times a person could break his little toes? The affected area was red and already starting to swell. Common sense dictated that he should elevate his foot and apply ice. Naturally he chose to ignore prevailing medical wisdom and resumed his duties. He was going to have clean clothes if it killed him! 

Grimacing in pain, Mulder hobbled to the bathroom and began the daunting excavation process. Artifacts from the "boxerzoic" and "sockazoic" eras quickly filled the basket, yet most of the hamper's overflowing contents remained entombed. Frustrated by this turn of events, he limped to the closet and grabbed two pillowcases, careful to avoid another encounter of the box kind. As he filled the makeshift laundry bags, he parodied Scarlett O'Hara's famous scene from "Gone With the Wind." Shaking his fist in the air, he proclaimed, "With God as my witness, I'll never go this long without doing laundry again!" 

Several minutes later, nearly every article of clothing Mulder owned waited near the front door to begin its journey toward purification. In his missionary zeal, he almost forgot the washing detergent. He opened the pantry door and reached for the not-so-familiar orange box, but despite his long arms, it was maddeningly unattainable. Not wanting to exacerbate the throbbing in his sore toes, Mulder gingerly balanced his weight on his left side and stood on the ball of his foot. Aha! Success! His slender fingers grasped the container and he dragged it toward the shelf's edge. Slippery from the caked soapy residue, the box escaped his tenuous hold and struck him on the face. The flap opened, thus unceremoniously christening him with detergent powder. His eyes felt like they had been bathed in acid and he instinctively rushed to the kitchen sink to irrigate them. A small eternity passed before he found blessed relief from the hellish burning sensation. Mulder wasn't sure whether the cold water or his tears helped flush the chemicals away. After the pain dissipated, he realized his hair was covered in soap bubbles. Wonderful. Absolutely, fucking wonderful! While the water flowed over his head, he seriously debated whether he should bother to rinse his hair or drown himself. 

Deciding he did not want do die with dirty underwear on his conscience, Mulder blindly adjusted the water to attain a suitable temperature. The overcompensation was immediately discernable. He yelped in pain as the scalding water splashed over his sensitive scalp. Mulder reflexively jerked back, hitting his head on the faucet. 

"Damn it! Why me?" With his hair dripping wet and his vision blurred, Mulder groped for a clean dishtowel on the counter. Finding none, he angrily yanked open a drawer to find the desired item. The wooden drawer bounced off two very tender toes prior to landing on the kitchen linoleum. Oh yeah. He really meant to fix that loose handle. Despondent over the current state of affairs, Mulder sat down on the floor and dissolved into a whimpering mass of humanity. 

Why was the universe out to get him today, more so than usual? What did he do to deserve this torture? Mulder propped his elbows on his knees and lamented his pathetic state. How could a person be repeatedly wounded from doing laundry? There were so many injuries he didn't know which to attend to first. He would have to be a damned octopus to simultaneously nurse his broken toes, irritated eyes and burned scalp. And how did one soothe a deflated ego? On top of everything else, he was developing a wicked headache. Fortunately this was a problem over which he had some control. Cautiously flexing his limbs, he stood up and opened the overhead cabinet. 

Hmm, that was odd. The door had never stuck on previous occasions. He tugged at it again, but it refused to budge. Annoyed at his latest stroke of bad luck, he leaned forward and pulled the door with greater force. Arrggghhhh! He expected more resistance, and his fist unexpectedly recoiled and smacked him in the nose. Blood gushed profusely as he pressed his hand against the wounded proboscis in a futile attempt to staunch the flow. Maybe it was time to reconsider the ice issue. Not trusting his own strength, Mulder gently pried the freezer open. No, this was not happening. There wasn't a single frigging ice cube in sight. Scully told him bagged vegetables would work in an emergency, but his freezer had never been defiled by healthy food. Would a half-empty carton of Ben  & Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream do? Probably not. Instead, he settled for holding a handful of damp paper towels against his face and the back of his neck until the bleeding subsided. 

Returning to the cabinet, Mulder searched for the bottle of Tylenol. Oh no. This was simply not possible. In view of his propensity for becoming sick or injured, Mulder couldn't believe he had allowed his supply of Tylenol to run out. The only alternative was a leftover bottle of Vicodin from his last on-the-job injury. Normally he wouldn't resort to drastic measures, but he was at his wit's end. If he took half a tablet, his misery could conceivably be alleviated without turning him into a total zombie. It was worth a try. To his astonishment, Mulder was able to swallow the medication without further incident. No choking or tearing his esophagus on the bisected tablet, no deep lacerations on his hands from glass fragments resulting from clutching the juice glass too tightly...dare he allow his hopes to soar? 

Warily regarding the source of his recent misfortunes, he picked up the box of detergent and evaluated its contents. Miraculously there was an ample supply left to wash his mountain of clothes. He deposited his nemesis in a lumpy pillowcase and plotted his strategy. Since he wanted to minimize his trips to the laundry room, he needed to distribute the weight properly. Various scenarios crossed his frazzled mind. Okay, this wasn't rocket science. An Oxford educated psychologist should be able to figure this out. Yes, that might work... Satisfied with his flash of insight, Mulder shuffled to the bedroom to find reasonably comfortable shoes. A brief scavenger hunt yielded a pair of moccasins. On an intellectual level, he understood a guy with a couple of probable broken toes couldn't afford to be too picky, but he shuddered at the fashion abomination. It was unquestionably every young man's dream to appear on the cover of GQ wearing a gray sweatshirt, navy blue sweatpants, no socks, tan moccasins and a hairstyle sculpted with washing detergent. Life didn't get any better than this! 

Due to the Vicodin, his pain was currently manageable. However, the friction of the leather moccasins against his swollen toes caused significant discomfort. Regardless of his distress, he was determined to complete his vexing task. He hobbled to his apartment door and hastily took an inventory. Keys, wallet, quarters, laundry and detergent. Perfect. He slung the basket on his hip and piled a bag on top, then awkwardly bent down and picked up the last pillowcase. As he approached the elevator, the weight of his burden seemed to increase exponentially. A cramp in his left arm loosened his grip on the basket, threatening to topple the additional load from its precarious position. In an effort to stave off impending disaster, Mulder tilted the plastic container toward him. While the swift action prevented one crisis, it presented another. The overfilled laundry bag rolled into his face, obstructing his vision and threatened to asphyxiate him with toxic fumes. Finally the doors slid open, and he stumbled across the threshold with his albatrosses. 

Once on the first floor, Mulder deposited his laundry in the hallway and reassessed his plans. Sometimes there was a fine line between tenacity and stupidity. Resolved to be sensible, he carried the two pillowcases to the laundry room and made a second trip for the basket. Soon he was contentedly sorting his clothes into different categories. There was something oddly therapeutic about the process, creating a semblance of order out of chaos. The cathartic experience made him feel empowered and in control of his life. Immersed in his task, he could temporarily ignore the indignities he had suffered throughout the morning. Immensely pleased with himself, Mulder tossed the newly organized garments into several washing machines. He then poured the appropriate amount of detergent over each load, closed the lids and put the required number of quarters into the trays. With boyish glee, Mulder pushed the money into the machines in rapid succession. Hopping on his left foot, he celebrated his achievement with a victory dance. Woo hoo! His ordeal was almost over. 

Buoyed by his progress, he collected his work attire from his apartment. Organization was the key to conquering domestic responsibilities. He would swing by the dry cleaners during the wash cycle, then return to the laundry room to transfer the freshly laundered items from the washing machines to the dryers. He could then stretch out on his couch and watch television for at least thirty minutes while his clothes dried. Nothing could be simpler. 

Ten minutes later, he parked his government-issued Taurus outside the dry cleaning establishment. Eager to put the errand behind him, he gathered his bag and started to slam the door closed. Suddenly remembering a coupon in his glove compartment for 50% off, he reached into the car as the crushing weight descended upon his fingers. "Oh, shit!" he hissed between clenched teeth. Four purplish-red digits were frozen in a grotesque facsimile of a salute. However, the oaths Mulder swore had nothing to do with duty, honor and country. He envisioned a totally different hand salute to express his displeasure over this development. Spurred by a sense of righteous indignation, he flung the door open with his uninjured hand and searched for the troublesome coupon. Finding the garishly colored piece of paper, Mulder kissed it in a display of mock affection. Satisfied with his treasure, he sank against the seat and read the fine print. What? This coupon expired three days ago! He had maimed his fingers for nothing. 

Disgusted by yet another assault to his body and masculine pride, he cradled his traumatized hand against his chest. The elusive "truth" may be worth dying for, but clean clothes were not worth life and limb. Stifling a girly scream, Mulder grabbed the bag from the passenger side of the car and limped to the dry cleaners to conduct his business transaction. Several people were in the slow-moving line, and the lack of air-conditioning contributed to his suffering. He felt nauseated and dizzy and he feared he would suffer from hyperthermia as a result of the oppressive heat and humidity. By the time he advanced to the counter, he was afraid he would puke on the attendant. The elderly woman recognized the telltale signs of imminent danger to her work area and hurriedly collected the appropriate fee. Mulder slipped the claim ticket into his wallet and headed toward the car. 

During the drive home, he decided he would take the other half of the previously divided Vicodin. Screw stoicism, he needed pain relief even if the medication _did_ make him a bit fuzzy. As soon as he arrived home, he stumbled toward the pantry and fumbled for the amber vial. Shaking half a white tablet into his hand, he re-evaluated the dosage. The label indicated he could take up to two tablets every four to six hours as needed for pain. He rationalized he _was_ in sufficient pain to justify the full prescribed dose. Furthermore, he had developed a relatively high tolerance to narcotic analgesics due to his all too frequent injuries. Mulder placed the pills in his mouth and washed them down with a glass of water. 

Not content to wait until the medication took effect, he staggered to the laundry room. Was it his imagination, or was the hallway longer than he thought? Wallowing in self-pity, he almost overlooked the crime scene that greeted him when he entered the facilities. His soggy clothes had been removed from the washing machines and dumped on the filthy Formica tabletop. Why on earth would a human being commit this heinous deed? And why was his underwear hot pink? Upon close inspection of the appliances, Mulder found a vital piece of evidence. A pair of red panties was trapped beneath an agitator. In his haste to tackle an unpleasant chore, he had neglected basic reconnaissance procedures by not ensuring the machines were empty. Great. Not only did he have to bleach his underwear, he needed to rewash his clothes. This setback would necessitate yet another agonizing round-trip. 

Mulder pressed the elevator button and waited...and waited. Abandoning that idea, he opted to take the stairs instead. The pain from his earlier mishaps had abated due to the medication, so he felt reasonably confident he could navigate the steps without incident. He had nearly accomplished the arduous feat when his foot slipped on a slick spot. His arms flailed as he urgently tried to latch onto the railing. Unable to regain his equilibrium, Mulder struck his left elbow as he tumbled down the stairs. An excruciating pain shot through his arm and he screamed bloody murder. Whoever said grown men didn't cry had obviously never banged his elbow on concrete. Clutching his throbbing arm, he sobbed relentlessly while murmuring a string of invectives between gasps. To add insult to injury, he started hiccupping. Could this day possibly get any worse? 

He thought about calling Scully to tend to his wounds and help him finish his laundry, but at this point his goal had evolved into a personal crusade. Determined to complete his mission, he pulled himself off the floor and carefully ascended the stairs. In his humble opinion, climbing Mount Everest was undoubtedly easier than scaling thirteen steps. When Mulder reached the summit, he raised his arms to the best of his limited ability in a pale imitation of the stirring scene from the movie "Rocky." 

Pleased with his triumph, Mulder slowly worked his way back to his apartment. He was exhausted from the physical activity and could barely move without causing unbearable pain despite the amount of Vicodin in his system. Holding his arm against his chest and favoring his left foot, he eventually made it to his destination. His hiccups had diminished in intensity, but continued to plague him. An old home remedy came to mind. If he swallowed a spoonful of sugar, the frustrating symptoms should go away. Mulder lifted the canister lid and frowned. To his consternation, the crystallized granules formed small yellowish-white stalagmites. Breaking a sugar fragment from the container, he plopped it into his mouth. He planned to allow it to dissolve, but a hitch in his breathing made him accidentally inhale the irregularly shaped object. Desperate to dislodge the clump of sugar, he clasped his hands together and prepared to perform the Heimlich maneuver on himself. Arrggghhhh! The exquisite pain in his fingers and arm prohibited this approach. Flinging himself across his kitchen table, he coughed and sputtered until the foreign body was expelled. 

When the wheezing decreased from the trauma to his airway, he noticed his hiccups were gone. Perhaps being scared out of his wits was a more effective cure. Mulder retrieved the washing detergent and bottle of bleach. Doggedly pressing forward, he revisited the laundry room to confront his adversary. Armed with the appropriate arsenal, he entered the facilities and prepared to wage war. Adhering to the ancient battle strategy of divide and conquer, he distributed the clothing into different washing machines. His pink underwear made him shudder. Mulder impatiently scanned the bottle for instructions. According to the directions, he should add three-quarters of a cup of bleach directly to the wash water before adding clothes. Oops. 

He dug the discolored clothes out of the machine and let the water fill to capacity. If three-quarters of a cup was good, twice as much bleach would be better. His pounding headache was aggravated by the noxious smell and he promptly puked into the nearest trashcan. Mulder almost wished he had his service revolver with him so he could put himself out of his misery. Shoving the underwear into the malodorous solution, he swallowed convulsively to avert another bout of vomiting. He swiftly added a scoop of detergent to each load of laundry and pushed the coins into the machines. The combination of pain, stress, fatigue and medication finally caught up with Mulder. Collapsing in a nearby chair, Mulder fell fast asleep. 

An unsettling noise roused him from his catnap and he awakened with a start. Mulder noticed a young woman removing clothes from a washing machine. He immediately panicked. Forget chivalry. There was absolutely _no_ way he would permit her to commandeer the dryers and prolong his ordeal. He hastily aborted the spin cycle prematurely and collected a load of freshly washed laundry. Tucking it under his right arm like a football, he disregarded his pain and raced to the row of dryers on the opposite side of the room. Excess water dripped from the saturated bundle onto the floor. Totally focused on his destination, Mulder didn't notice the looming danger. 

Stepping into a sizeable puddle, he skidded across the floor dropping the armload of clothes in an endeavor to regain his balance. Mulder twisted his body to offset the forward momentum, but the laws of motion could not be overcome. His ankle turned at an unnatural angle as he slid helplessly toward the wall. For a split second he lost contact with terra firma. In accordance with Sir Isaac Newton's observation that what goes up must come down, Mulder succumbed to gravitational forces and fell to the ground. His head hit the concrete with a resounding thud and he mercifully lost consciousness. 

* * *

The mournful sound of retching and moaning awoke Mulder from his fitful slumber. He sought to turn away from the offending noise, but gentle hands firmly restrained him. 

"Are you done?" 

Done? Mulder gradually became aware of the emesis basis shoved under his chin, as well as the bitter taste of bile. So _he_ was the source of the dreadful retching and moaning. Someone wiped his face with a cool, damp washcloth and ran her small fingers through his hair. 

"Scully?" His eyelids fluttered open, but even the reduced illumination of the room was intensely overwhelming. Wincing in pain, he draped his good arm over his face. "Scully, are you there?" 

"I'm right here, Mulder. You're going to be fine." She resumed rubbing his shoulder in soothing, circular motions while the nurse made a notation in his chart. 

"Fine? Does that mean I can go home?" 

Scully bit her lip and silently counted to ten. "Not yet. You have a basilar skull fracture so Dr. Soames wants you closely monitored for a while. He's especially concerned about the disorientation and persistent vomiting." 

"Um, speaking of which, can I have some good drugs? _Now_?" 

The tall brunette nurse stepped forward. "Sir, can you answer a few questions for me first?" 

Hospitals were so predictable. In exchange for divulging the equivalent of his name, rank and serial number, he would receive medication to lessen his suffering. From his perspective, it was an equitable trade. "My name is Fox Mulder, it's October 13th, Bill Clinton is the president, and I'm in Hell." Uncovering his face, he blearily focused on the shapely young woman. "I'm sorry, I don't know the name of the hospital or your name though." 

"You're at Alexandria Hospital, and my name is Lisa." Brandishing a penlight, she smiled at her miserable charge. "At the risk of sounding like a flirt, I need to look into your eyes, okay?" 

"No, it's not okay," Mulder grumbled, "but go ahead, have your way with me." He involuntarily flinched while she examined his pupillary responses. 

"Still sensitive to light, I see." 

"No kidding." Swatting the penlight away, he reiterated his earlier request. "Can I have my meds?" 

"Sure, I'll be right back." 

Mulder tried to shift his position on the notoriously uncomfortable mattress, but was impeded by his encumbered left arm and right foot. Undeterred, he attempted to lower the angle of the bed, but was promptly thwarted by his overzealous partner. "You need to keep your head elevated, remember?" 

There was no flash of recognition, only a hint of sadness. "No. Nothing. Nada." 

Her expression softened. "You've been pretty 'out of it' most of the day. It's not surprising you have some substantial gaps in your memory. Your...um...altered level of consciousness alarmed the emergency room physician." 

"What did I say?" 

"You treated the ER staff to a diatribe regarding the evils of dry cleaning coupons, red panties and killer washing detergent. You also offered to make a sacrifice to the laundry goddess to atone for your sins." 

Massaging his aching temples, Mulder groaned. "So am I in the psych ward?" 

She grinned mischievously. "Don't worry. It's not that easy to commit a person for spouting outrageous theories. Although your extensive collection of injuries might not convince your doctor you aren't a danger to yourself." 

"What exactly did I do?" 

In preparation for her recitation, she moved her chair closer to his bedside. "A neighbor found you in the laundry room and called 911. You were unconscious when you arrived in the emergency room. In addition to the skull fracture you have a couple of broken toes, four broken fingers, chemical conjunctivitis, a minor scalp burn, a fractured elbow a grade three ankle sprain and a partridge in a pear tree." 

"Very funny. What does grade three mean?" 

"Somehow you managed to tear two ligaments in your ankle when you fell. Your orthopedist doesn't believe it will require surgery though. Once the swelling goes down they'll put you in some type of cast for three weeks. After that you'll graduate to a walking boot, then your personal favorite, physical therapy." 

"Oh joy, oh thrill, oh rapture. Oh well. At least I won't have to undergo the knife." 

Staring at a spot on the floor, Scully delivered the bad news. "Your ankle will probably be spared, but you'll definitely need surgery on your elbow to remove a large bone chip." 

"Shit." 

Out of habit, she reassuringly rested her hand on his. The light pressure brought an unsettling detail to his attention: He had an IV. How many other tubes invaded his body? Experimentally, he moved his leg and was upset to discover another unwanted intrusion. Damn. Was there an unwritten hospital policy that stated, "Thou shalt stick a humiliating tube into every bodily orifice?" 

On that note, Lisa breezed through the door. "I brought you some non-narcotic pain medication and something for the nausea. I'm sorry for the delay, but the pharmacy was out of Phenergan suppositories. We had to get your doctor's authorization to switch to the IV version." 

Gazing at the syringe, Mulder hesitantly asked, "Will I get the rest of my medications intravenously too?" 

Lisa nodded. "Unless your doctor changes the orders, that's the plan until you're able to tolerate oral medications." 

"Thank God!" 

Amused by his reaction, Scully suppressed a giggle. "Mulder, are you having a religious experience?" 

He gratefully observed the medication being injected into his IV port. "I usually don't believe in the existence of miracles." The nurse chuckled as she disposed of the syringes in the sharps container and left the room. 

"I'd hardly call avoiding a suppository a miracle," Scully teased. 

"I can't help it if I'm feeling profoundly spiritual. All I want to do is drift into the arms of Morpheus and pretend this day never happened." As if to emphasize his point, Mulder yawned. Images of the morning's catastrophes replayed in his mind and he abruptly struggled to get out of bed. 

"What's the matter? Are you nauseated again?" 

"No, I just thought of something. Most of my clothes were in the laundry room when I lost consciousness. I have to find out what happened to my stuff!" 

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it." She repositioned his pillows and gently pushed him back onto the bed. 

"But what if my laundry was swiped or thrown away? I can't wear togas or fig leaves until I can replace everything." 

"Let me check with the landlord before you resort to drastic measures." 

Mumbling in a low voice, he revealed his embarrassing secret. "Um, Scully. I had a little accident earlier. I didn't bother to make sure the washing machines were empty when I dumped my clothes in, and um...there was a pair of red panties stuck under the agitator. My underwear turned bright pink. I refuse to wear pink t-shirts and boxers. It's not manly." 

"I don't know. It could demonstrate you're secure in your masculinity." 

"I'm not _that_ secure!" 

Ever practical, she proposed a short-term solution. "All right. I'll buy you a couple of packages of white underwear to tide you over until you can get to the store." 

The thought of Scully purchasing certain personal items made him uneasy. "Uh, I'd rather you not do that." 

"That's ridiculous. It's not like you have anything I haven't already seen." 

"Sculleeeee!" 

"Mulder, for heaven's sake, get a grip! I used to help my mom fold clothes when I was growing up. With a father and two brothers, I've handled plenty of boxers and briefs in my lifetime." 

"Oh, that!" He blushed at his erroneous assumption. 

Genuinely puzzled, Scully absent-mindedly brushed a stray lock of copper hair behind her ear. "What did you _think_ I was talking about?" 

"Never mind." Mulder managed to muster a modicum of dignity. "I suppose you need to know my size..." 

"I already do." 

"What?!" 

"Your underwear sizes. I couldn't help but notice when I've brought you clothes during your previous hospitalizations." 

Riiiiight. As luck would have it, the Phenergan began to take effect. He lazily glanced at Scully. "Sorry, I'm crashing here." 

"Get some rest. You've had a rough day." She playfully tousled his hair. "I'll stop by your apartment building and conduct an investigation. Hopefully your clothes haven't been abducted by Reticulans. I'll see you tonight." 

"Okay." 

Rising from the tattered visitor's chair, Scully regarded her bedridden partner. En route to the door, she turned around and smiled. "Laundry goddess, huh?" 

"Who knows?" he shrugged. "I think it's remotely plausible there's a higher power with a bizarre sense of humor. After all, who would have ever guessed I'd be punished for having clean thoughts?" 

finis   
  


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